If there is one creature comfort that I am not willing to give up, it is warmth. I would much rather be too warm than too cold. But lo and behold, two nights ago I slept in a snow cave with my 12 year-old son to support him in his quest for a merit badge. Little did I know that it would be his presence that would bring me comfort through the long Winter night.

The family had spent hours earlier in the day piling and packing a huge mound of snow from our recent 16-inch acquisition. We had a bountiful supply of the kind perfect for packing. It was then carved out, and we had a snow cave that was wide and long enough to accommodate the two of us just fine.

But the ceiling of the cave was low. While lying inside, there was enough room to roll over. That was it. I remembered the times I spent as a teenager, feeling comforted by small spaces, often requesting to ride in the trunk of my friends' cars. I was caught off guard by my sudden fear of confinement as I slid, feet first, into the hole in the snow. I began to panic in the cold as I inched my way into the sleeping bag.

As Jet slid in next to me, I settled down some, as he was fearless. We read for a while by the lantern light before deciding that the sooner we got to sleep, the sooner it would be over. Jet was snoring within 10 minutes. I was terrified.

There was complete silence, with an occasional drip drip at the entrance, as snow melted. I remembered telling Jet at age three that night isn't scary because even if you can't see the sun, the moon can, so anytime he felt scared at night he could look to the moon and know the sun would be up soon.

But I couldn't see the moon from inside the cave. I could see snow, and I could see Jet. And Jet was sleeping. How could he sleep in this tight space that could collapse upon us at any moment? After what seemed like hours of anxiety and terror, I stopped asking how it was possible that my son could feel safe in this place, and noticed that he just did. And that calmed me, because I trusted his instinct. I know he knows when something is wrong, and he is quick to warn and guide others. But here he was, sleeping, and that was good enough for me.

I suddenly realized I was warm. We were well insulated and dry, and a slight slope on the floor of the snow cave ensured that we stayed close together. I occasionally plotted my escape, thinking of every plausible excuse why I should be exempt from this experience. I wasn't the one who was earning the merit badge, after all. But that didn't mean I wouldn't get anything from seeing it through.

My toes started to freeze. I couldn't reach down to rub them and keep them warm. I was able to use my toes to push my thick socks down around them better, but they remained cold throughout the night, and my focus turned to their warmth, wiggling them and rubbing them on my ankles to create some friction. 

By the time dawn had arrived, I had come face to face with many fears I never knew I had. Inside the house I had many distractions. My laptop, my daydreams, and all the comforts necessary for living a distracted life. I began to think of friends and recent experiences, of people buried for days in earthquake debris, of how I somehow managed not to project my own fears upon my child.

I drifted off for probably an hour or two, and when I awoke to see sunlight, I wasted no time in awakening my boy and hightailing it back to our beds, where I could again be blissfully distracted, but with a newfound awareness of myself.

Later in the day I thanked Jet for sharing the experience with me, assuring him that I would remember it forever. He just said, "Yeah," and smiled. When asked later how he felt about the outing, his view is simple. "It was pretty fun," he said. 

TAGGED WITH: camping, fears, moon, snow, snow cave, winter